


The spin doctor and the dowdy DoSAC bint go large

by carlotta22



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, James Murray is a little shit, Malcola prompts, Malcom has a secret soft spot for Nicky, Swearing, except everyone knows about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23426056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carlotta22/pseuds/carlotta22
Summary: A series of malcola ficlets based on prompts; I hope they fill the Malcola shaped hole you never knew you had in these hard times.
Relationships: Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39





	1. Smoking

**Author's Note:**

> NB: This first story has also been posted to ff.net :) as this is my first fic on AO3.  
> If anyone has prompts they'd like me to write let me know and I'll try and give them a jolly good go!
> 
> Prompt 1: Smoking  
> Person 1 follows Person 2 out for a smoke break during work, but Person 1 doesn’t actually smoke. They attempt to smoke a cigarette to impress Person 2, but they immediately start coughing uncontrollably and embarrass themselves.

It had been an incredibly trying morning for Nicola Murray. She had just been on the receiving end of a monumental bollocking from Malcom on the Dos and Don’ts of addressing an audience of middle-aged bankers in their lunch break. For instance: DO make your policy, that essentially boils down to them giving the government money to educate delinquents on the ins-and-outs of compound depreciation, come across as something that is beneficial and will make them look good. DON’T, accidentally refer to the CFO of a bank as a “Banker wanker” in front of his wife and then proceed to make underhand remarks about the propriety of the banking profession (or lack thereof). No matter how true said comments may be.

Unfortunately, Nicola had quite successfully pulled off the latter of the two, and as a result had been subjected to a full 20 minutes worth of mixed metaphors and violent sexual imagery explaining how much of an eternal fuck-up she was, as well as some rather unnecessary personal attacks on the volume of her hair.

She knew the speech was a crash-and-burn as it was happening, and the comments re: the balding salamander of a CFO had only been the final nails in the coffin. However, an inordinate number of fucks later, she still felt like it wasn’t worthy of the intense verbal bashing she had received from Malcom, in fact – despite that particular incident – Nicola had been practically competent in the past few weeks. Her fourth sector pathfinder’s initiative was getting off the ground and she had had a very successful meeting with her constituents not three days previously. Yet somehow, she had managed to piss off Malcom Tucker so inordinately that he felt it necessary to refer to her hair as “a sentient bird’s nest that would do a far better fucking job of running the department than you Nic’la”. In fairness, the banker fiasco wasn’t great but it was by no means one of her bigger faux pas, in fact, she said nothing the man didn’t agree with himself and even then, there was only a handful of journalists there (which Malcom saw to before the event had even finished). Frankly, what ever Nicola had done to deserve the rage she had just witnessed was beyond her.

***

Malcom Tucker sat at his desk in 10 Downing street. Long, bony fingers steepled under his chin. His piercing gaze fell upon the offending article. A 20 pack of Benson and Hedges. So trivial and yet they elicited such rage within the Scot. He had asked Sam to go out and buy him the pack, a request that had been met with puzzlement and a fair heap of judgement. However, she had complied and bought them in after Nicola had left his office that afternoon.

Ni’cla. She was the one who had started this whole conundrum he was now facing. Granted, she wasn’t necessarily aware that she had sent the normally unflappable Malcom F Tucker into a spiral of self-doubt and shame, but neither was he going to explain it to her. Yes, he had overreacted somewhat to the banker incident and yes, he had said some rather rude things about her hair (not that they weren’t true, but it wasn’t pertinent to the conversation at hand). But he couldn’t help but be furious at the woman for making him look like a fool.

***

_4 days earlier_

_It was a warm afternoon and the sun cast a soft glow across the rooftop garden of the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship. Nicola Murray was sprawled across the bench in said garden, the skirt of her suit rucked up and the sleeves of her blouse rolled for maximum sun exposure. She had had a busy morning, having presented some of her fourth sector ideas to the cabinet (thankfully with little backlash) and then back to back meetings with some of the more outlandish “pathfinders” she had, well, found… All in all, she was rather stressed but feeling pretty good about her work, a feat unto itself really. Perhaps it was the bizarre fact that for once things seemed to be going okay, or maybe it was the feeling of sneaking away for her lunch hour to bask in the first proper sun of the year, then again maybe it was neither of those things and she was suddenly struck with a streak of teenage rebellion a few decades too late. Whatever the reason, Nicola found herself fumbling in the bottom of her enormous – “makes you look like a fucking Mary Poppins wannabe” – handbag for the pack of cigarettes she had confiscated off Katie at the weekend. She had been meaning to throw them away all week, but instead she found herself lighting one and taking a deep drag. She exhaled. Christ, she had forgotten quite how enticing the bloody things were. Well, there was no harm in smoking just the one now was there?_

_No sooner had she taken a few more puffs when a she was shaken out of her reverie by the dulcet tones of an angry Scotsman._

_“Nic’la, darling.” The term of endearment rolled off his tongue in a way that conveyed he was about to be anything but endearing. “What the ever-loving fuck do you think you’re doing?” Oh, for fuck’s sake, thought Nicola, just for once in my miserable life I can I catch a fucking break._

_“Malcom,” She bit out, “I am having a cigarette and I am taking a moment.” She glared at him intensely._

_“A cigarette… A cigarette! Who do you think you are love, Kerry Ka-fucking-tona. You don’t even smoke love. The only fag in your life is fucking Glenn.”_

_“Oh Malcom, for fucks sake don’t make this a thing. Please. I can do what I like, it’s my lunch break.”_

_“Oh well then. So, when the Mail is running with the headline: ‘Nicorette Murray, why the fuck is she proposing health advice when she smokes like a fucking chimney? I’ll just ignore it shall I?”_

_“Malcom,” Nicola interrupted him before his rant could turn into a full-on Shakespearean monologue. “I realise that this is not a great look for my image, but please, it’s not like I’m in public or supporting a smokers’ cough, am I?” She rolled her eyes and took another drag. To be honest she wasn’t particularly enjoying the thing anymore, but she persevered simply to piss Malcom off further._

_“Look, Nicky. I’m just worried you’ll pick up a bad habit love.” Like fuck he was, thought Nicola._

_“Don’t fucking call me Nicky. And the only thing you’re worried about is your reputation, which happens to occasionally live vicariously through me. So, either have a cigarette yourself,” she thrust one towards the ever- furious spin doctor, “or fuck the fuck off!”._

***

The problem, Malcom considered, was not that he had been against Nicola smoking. He hadn’t wanted her to pick up the habit, lest she come across as even more of an idiot than normal, but really he had no objections to the cabinet minister having a puff or two after a stressful day (lord knows he had seen some ministers chain a 20 pack under less stress than Mrs. Murray). However, he did object to the sight he saw as he entered the roof garden that lunchtime. Or, more correctly, he objected to how it made him feel.

***

_Malcom heaved himself up the stairs towards DoSAC’s rooftop garden. Normally, this was the kind of place he would avoid like the plague for fear of bumping into Terri and Robin lounging around doing diddily-fuck and gossiping. However, today he had it on good authority that Nicola Murray was spending her lunch break doing lord knows what up there. Again, it was unusual that Malcom went in search of the dowdy DoSAC minister, but he had wanted to tell her about a request from BBC2 to talk about her 4 th sector on their morning show. By Nicola’s standards this was practically the equivalent to being offered a knighthood. So here he was, about to congratulate glummy mummy on not being a complete cock-up for once. _

_Unfortunately, all semblance of congratulatory spirit left the spin doctor as he opened the door. Nicola Murray was looking decidedly “non-glummy” as she lay on the bench in the garden. Her slim, toned legs were borne far more than usual, with – oh Christ were those garter belts – holding her stockings up. Her blazer was slung over the side of the bench and her shirt sleeves rolled up to show off her tanned forearms. If that wasn’t enough, she sat with her eyed closed, legs crossed, puffing on a cigarette in a way that was bordering on salacious. ‘Well fuck me’, thought Malcom._

_For all that he referred to Nicola as a ‘dowdy bitch’ or ‘frizzy-haired fuck up’, Malcom was aware that the cabinet minister was attractive. She had that MILF thing going on, and an arse that was frankly glorious – he had even once heard Robin and Terri singing its praises. However, he had never considered her to be sexy. That was, he hadn’t considered her to be sexy until he saw slowly remove the cigarette from her pouted lips and open her eyes to meet his. Fearing the feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach, he had no choice but to go on the offensive._

_“Ni’cla, darling.” He drawled, trying to keep his voice level. “What the ever-loving fuck do you think you’re doing?”_

***

From that point, Malcom had managed to push the sudden feelings of attraction down as he focuses on lambasting the poor woman. However, when she began to argue back, he had felt a whole new wave wash over him. See that was the thing that really kept Nicola Murray high on his list of priorities. Yes, she often ballsed things up spectacularly, but so did every other minister in the fucking party, but really it was her ability to fight back that endeared her to him.

***

_“either have a cigarette yourself,” she thrust the thing towards him, “or fuck the fuck off!”._

_Now Malcom didn’t usually take kindly to being told to fuck-off, but in this case, he practically welcomed the chance to leave without making a fool of himself. However, despite his sudden and mysterious desire to jump the minster for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship, Malcom Tucker refused to back down. So, he plucked the offending item from her hand and pushed it between his pursed lips._

_“Here, let me…” To Malcom’s horror, Nicola leant across the gap between them to light the cigarette and as a result gave him a full view down her shirt. This resulted in him inhaling sharply, a reaction that could’ve been covered up had he not taken in a lung-full of smoke as he did so._

_The smoke filled his lungs and he could do nothing but wheeze as it went down the wrong way. He started coughing uncontrollably, his eyes watering. Christ, he was embarrassing himself like a fuckin’ bairn._

_“Shit, Malcom!” Nicola leapt off the bench to pat him on the back. “Jesus, are you okay? God, you should’ve fucking said you don’t smoke.” Then, to make matters worse, Nicola prised the cigarette from his lips and popped it in corner of her own mouth. Malcom’s coughs began to subside, but he could feel his cheeks become flushed, partly with embarrassment and partly from the fact that the woman he had once considered a frumpy bint, was now rubbing circles on his back as she assaulted the cig that had been in his mouth not moments earlier._

_“I’m fine Ni’cla.” He growled, brushing off her attempts to help. “Fuckin’ fine.”_

_“Malcom, it’s okay. Not everyone is able to smoke, there’s nothing embarrassing about it.” She looked at him, doe eyed with the expression one might give when reassuring a young child that everyone has wet themselves at some point in their miserable little life. He groaned and looked up at the sky._

_He was lucky, as the awkward silence that had descended was suddenly broken by the shrill of his Blackberry. Hallu-fucking-llujah. He picked it up, spun on his heel and said nothing as he left Nicola stood – smirk on her face – puffing on the rest of his cigarette._

***

Malcom had replayed the memory over and over, each time embarrassment and arousal fought each other and – annoyingly for Malcom – each time arousal won out. So, it was with this thought that he made a reckless decision and scribbled a message onto a post-it and taped it to the box of B&H. Then, without overthinking anything, he called out for Sam to courier the package over to DoSAC.

***

Nicola returned to her desk at the end of the day to collect her stuff. On it she found a small package and a note. She opened the note, read it and then re-read it twice more for it bore the message:

_Dear Nic’la,_

_Sorry for being a twat. The fourth sector isn’t going completely to shit, and you aren’t being a total fucking spaz at the moment – well done. I hope you will except these cancer sticks to make up for the bollocking this morning._

_Malcom x_

_(p.s. if you ever mention this to anyone, I will have your lady bollocks as earrings)_

To say Nicola was astounded would be the understatement of the century. She turned the packet of Benson and Hedges over and over in her hands. Was Malcom dying? Had he been subject to an invasion of the body-snatchers? But then, she reasoned, whatever had happened, who was she to question it. So, with that thought she pocketed the packet and grabbed the rest of her stuff. What a strange, strange couple of weeks.


	2. Walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Person 1 complaining about how long the walk to wherever is, and Person 2 constantly telling them to shut up and that they’re almost there. After Person 1 doesn’t stop complaining, Person 2 picks Person 1 up like a child and tells them that’s what they get for complaining like a child and carries them all the way there.  
> “If you’re going to act like a child, I’m going to treat you like a child. Shut the hell up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just loving the idea of Malcom crushing on Nicola atm, so here's another fic that's mostly his perspective.

If the stabbing pains in her feet were anything to go by, Nicola was sure they were coming up to around mile 3 of the 5-mile trek into town. Normally a walk like this would prove no problem to her, used to ferrying children around and climbing an inordinate number of stairs every day. However, she was undertaking this particular walk in a half-size too small pair of Louboutin’s, a pencil skirt which was on the short side and carrying an outlandish amount of paperwork in her handbag. The reason she found herself in the predicament? Well that would be the angry Scotsman trailing half a dozen paces behind her and mumbling curse words under his breath.

It was Malcom who had decided that for this particular conference, the party should stay in a nice country inn just off the beaten track in the New Forest. An unusual choice by his standards, but apparently a good way to keep “all manner of Tom-fuckery away from the press as he [he being the PM] gets sloshed on cheap margaritas and starts chatting up his wife’s PA”. So, Nicola and the rest of her DoSAC team found themselves cooped up in a darling little cottage type arrangement, 5 miles away from the nearest point of civilisation. When this was raised as an issue, she was told in no uncertain terms that “you’ll be able to get to town using one of the driver’s you fucking dozy mare”, and so on this notion she felt no more need to worry about the secluded nature of the living arrangements. That was until she found herself trekking through the New Forest in her best heels and suit with only the dark lord of spin for company.

Nicola Murray would like the record to state that – for once – the predicament they found themselves in was not her doing. In fact, if anything it was the fault of the normally sagacious spin doctor. Earlier that day Glenn and Ollie had been prepping her for the afternoon interview she had in town, discussing some of the merits of DoSAC’s newest policies followed by a Q&A in the townhall. Unfortunately, that had been cut short by a phone call from her eldest daughter Katie, explaining that she couldn’t possibly stay in the house with James a moment longer and if she was forced to, she would move into Lexie’s – her girlfriend of whom Nicola approved, but whose mother she was sure would not take kindly to Katie taking up permanent residence. Having then spent the better part of 20 minutes on the phone, trying to placate the teenager, she found herself running late with less than an hour to prepare some standard question answers and have some kind of inevitable run in with Malcom.

True to form, Malcom had shown up around 15 minutes into her answer preparations and demanded council with ‘the queen of frump’ herself. He had explained to Nicola that there was a car waiting to take them both into town but that it needed to leave in the next 5 minutes in order to be back in time to pick up the minister for transport at 13.40. So, dutiful and jolly-hockey sticks as she was, Nicola had got into the car with Malcom with only a handful of fucks exchanged. At this point her day began to take a turn for the worst.

They had been in the car not two minutes when the engine made a noise that was similar to that of a dying bird. This was followed by the car grounding to a halt and then stopping as black smoke began pluming around the rear windows. As you can imagine this turn of events was met with a string of unrepeatable words from Malcom. Well actually if you were going to repeat them they covered all manner of profanity from: “this is god’s way of telling me to wring the necks of those cuntting Top Gear twats” to “if this fucking useless excuse for a ministerial Pope-Mobile doesn’t start in the next fucking minute then I have every mind to beat the shit out of it with its own fucking exhaust pipe”. The latter statement was punctuated with well-placed kicks to the car’s bonnet. Elanor, the driver, looked like she might beat Malcom with his own exhaust pipe if he didn’t stop kicking the car. Exasperated by the turn of events and the Malcom’s childish behaviour, Nicola had picked up their files, stuffed them in her handbag and grabbed the angry man by his wrist. She then proceeded to tell him that if they were to get to this Q&A at all they would need to walk and if he didn’t like it then he could – in no uncertain terms – fuck off.

So that was how Nicola had found herself hiking into town with a miserable Malcom Tucker hot on her tail.

***

It wasn’t often that Malcom Tucker felt his age, in fact he was sure that each intense bollocking of a Minister added 6 months to his life (a year if it was the PM). However, he currently felt a little worse for wear. The reason? He was tailgating wee Nicky Murray up a hill towards the town of inbred fucking nutters.

The walk itself shouldn’t really have been a problem, but it appeared Ni’cla’s yoga had done her some good as she paced it up the hill in her too tall heels lugging her frankly enormous handbag with her. They had been walking just over an hour and Malcom had spent an embarrassing amount of that time staring at the cabinet minister’s arse. It wasn’t his fault it defied gravity now was it. He was half inclined to ask her to slow down so that they might walk side-by-side, that way he would be less inclined to ogle the woman. Alas, his pride was just great enough that he settled on persevering and trying to limit the arse-gazing by coming up with some new and creative insults. 

He was just weighing up the merits of “fucky-o-saurus” verses “cunt-eratops” when he practically knocked DoSAC’s finest right on to her aforementioned arse.

“Jesus Ni’cla, what tae fuck you stopped for?” Nicola made no move to speak, instead pulling off her shoes, spinning round and shoving them angrily into his chest. Malcom looked down at her, chest heaving as a slight sheen of sweat covered her chest – not that he was looking of course…

“My feet hurt Malcom. My fucking feet fucking hurt because I have been walking through the fucking arse-end of the country in fucking high heels!” The fury in her eyes was akin to the kind of fury he felt when Tom had made a particularly ludicrous comment in public (often involving some level of self-righteous twatishness that Malcom was half incline to let him perish for).

“Aye, well you should’ave packed those garish wee trainers of yours.” To be fair he deserved the punch to his should that followed that particular comment.

“Packed. Trainers.” Nicola spat out. “Sorry, sorry I didn’t think.” She let out an ominous little laugh. “I didn’t think I would need trainers because I didn’t suddenly develop the powers to become FUCKING OMNISCIENT.” She screamed the last part of it as she banged his chest with the high heels. It occurred to him then that they were still standing abnormally close, practically nose to nose.

In that moment, with a raging Nicola Murray staring up at him, Malcom wanted nothing more than to sweep her off her feet and snog her senseless. However, that could prove to be something of a mistake as they were stood in the middle of the countryside, a questionable distance from anywhere escapable. So, he settled on the next best thing, sweeping her off her feet. Literally.

“Ni’cla love, if you’re going to act like one of those wee bairns of yours, I’m going tae treat you like one. Now, shut the fuck up.”

He slung an arm around the woman’s back and the other under her legs and swept her into his arms in one smooth move. Well he might not be yoga-guru Murray levels of fit, but he was by no means an old man. Nicola let out a little shriek.

“Malcom, what are you doing put me down!” Despite her protests however, he could feel the cabinet minister shuffle in his arms slightly to make herself more comfortable.

“Well Nicky, if your feet hurt love you best not use them. Now pipe down you daft bint and let’s get you to this Q&A because good god the party could do with some good fucking press this week.” He thought he could hear a mumble of ‘don’t fucking call me Nicky’ into his shoulder, but he chose to ignore it.

They walked for another 15 minutes, Malcom feeling a burn in his legs that felt like the fires of hell. Despite this however, he refused to put the minister down and instead chose to pass time buy gently reminding her to not fuck this press appearance up or risk a slow and painful bollocking that will make her wish people were still hung, drawn and quartered. As they passed the sign that welcomed them to Fuck-a-nory, Malcom was beginning to lag and Nicola had her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, head against his chest. To an onlooker it may look like he was whispering sweet-nothings into her ear, and – in his own heinously sweary way – he was.

“C’mon now Ni’cla, ya better tell those occasionally competent fucks that must live in all that free space in your head to get a fucking move on. We’re nearly here.”

So preoccupied were they, neither noticed the tell-tale clicks of a camera perforating the air as Malcom staggered the last few paces and plonked Nicola down. Neither did they notice them as Nicola slipped her shoes on, fluffed her hair and then gave Malcom and almost imperceptible peck on the cheek.

***

Nicola almost had an aneurysm when she picked up the paper that sat outside her bedroom door. Emblazoned across the front page was the headline:

_The dark lord of spin has a heart, and that heart is held by delightful DoSAC minister Nicola Murray._

Below the Headline was a blown-up picture of her in Malcom’s arms, followed by a slightly smaller picture of her kissing Malcom’s cheek. The text below it went as follows:

_Nicola Murray, cabinet minister and leader of the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship, was spotted looking very close with Westminster’s infamously irate spin doctor on Wednesday afternoon. Tucker and Murray have been spotted working together at a number of events in the past few months, with some speculation that Tucker might favour the charming minister. This favouritism may appear more apparent as the two were spotted in a small town in the New Forest just a few minutes before Nicola was due to take part in a Q &A. A source saw Mister Tucker carry Ms. Murray across town lines as she appeared to have suffered a shoe malfunction, following that they apparently had their heads close and Mr. Tucker appeared to be whispering something to the minister that caused her to smile. Murray bid Tucker goodbye – for the moment – by planting a chaste kiss to his cheek before making her way to her meeting. By the looks of things Mr. Tucker found her walk to be of much interest. [Photo: Left]_

The photo in question quite blatantly showed Malcom taking in the pleasing view of her arse as she walked away – she was now somewhat embarrassed to note that she had put a purposeful swing in her walk as she had left him, precisely to elicit that reaction. The paper then asked her to turn to page 6 for the rest of the story. Now feeling somewhat nauseous, and quite sure that the rest of the article would make reference to the small fact she was a married woman with 4 children, she threw the paper on to the bed.

As it flew through the air a note slipped out and fluttered to the ground. Nicola pick it up.

_To the delightful DoSAC minister Nicola Murray,_

_I see that my attempts at chivalry have been somewhat thwarted by the hacks._

_Don’t you worry your charming little head about it – I’m sure that’ll but far too much strain on the fuckwits that have taken up residence there. I’ll make sure this goes away even if I have to string the hacks up by their entrails and beat them with your ridiculous excuses for shoes._

_Don’t get your (assumedly) enormous knickers in too much of a twist,_

_Malcom ‘the not so dark lord of spin’ Tucker x_

_p.s. sorry for staring at your arse – not very chivalrous_

_p.p.s in my defence it is a spectacular arse_


	3. Soulmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate AU – Every night you receive a message about a random sentence your soulmate has said that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicola's POV only, but I might write Malcom's side of the story at a later date.

For the first 20 years of her life, Nicola’s soulmate messages had been fairly PG-13. There were of course the occasional bouts of bad language, but that tended to be par for the course.It was common practice to write down the message that appeared on your forearm each day. A fragment of the kind of life your soulmate was living captured in a random sentence they had uttered. If she was honest with herself Nicola found the whole thing to be a bit ridiculous, but she was none the less dutiful in her notetaking, each day jotting down a line or two that had come straight from her soulmate’s lips.

By 22 she had found out a few things about her soulmate. Firstly, they were almost certainly Scottish if their frequent use of “wee twat” was anything to go by. Secondly, they either had a good few years on her, or were a child prodigy since by her 15th birthday they were waxing lyrical about university professors and – on one notable occasion – were drinking lager that “tasted like camel’s piss and believe me Jamie I would know”. All in all, whoever her soulmate was had seemed harmless enough. In fact, she had been thrilled to realise that the content of their sentences was benign enough that she would be very unlikely to know it was them even if they did ever meet.

It was thoughts like these that placated her when she met James at university. He was quite obviously not her soulmate, but she loved him none the less and by the end of university they had moved into a pokey London appartment together. It was around these years that the sentences that adorned her arm every night began to take on a slightly more offensive tone. Over the next 10 years, Nicola built up a repertoire of truly outstanding curse words. Her soulmate had somehow learnt to do with swearwords what Di Vinci could do with paint. They created images that could be both so visceral and so spectacular that sometimes it was all Nicola could do to not just pepper the insults into her everyday language simply to see how it would come off.

Her favourite lines were often the simplest, for instance “fuckity bye” or a portmanteau like “twunt”. However, she was always particularly thrilled on the days where the elegant script on her arm would tell a story. Perhaps a mixture of metaphors, enlightening someone as to just how they would be displayed when they met their unfortunate demise, ‘strung up by their entrails as they were attacked by a swarm of fucking bees’ in one instance.

She became less enamoured with the remarks after her first child was born. On one particularly trying morning Katie’s preschool had rung her asking why her child had told the teaching assistant to ‘fuck off and grow a pair’. After that Nicola had taken to wearing more long sleeves and being less insistent that her children learn their phonics.

For a long time, Nicola assumed her sweary soulmate must be a high-ranking officer, involved in a cult or just be a really intense method actor. She like to play out scenarios in her head where the intense bollocking they were giving was a result of someone messing up whilst trying to defeat a terrorist cell, or where the “fuck the fuck off” was directed towards James as her and her soulmate sailed off into the sunset. She was so sure that she would never get to know her real soulmate, that for a while she even forgot the creative curses were attached to a real person. Well she did until she got a phone call one sunny Friday afternoon.

***

Junior minister Nicola Murray was headed to Number 10 Downing street. This was, quite frankly, the highlight of her political career so far. Granted she was only there to take notes on a meeting about a green initiative she was involved in, but even knowing this did nothing to dampen her mood. She tottered along the cobbles, hair back in a neat chignon and supporting her best tailored suit. Having been sent an email regarding which room the meeting was to be held in, along with directions on how to get there, she made her way through the corridors with purpose. It wasn’t until she had doubled back on herself twice that she realised she might be more than a little lost.

Choosing to admit defeat, lest she be late for the meeting, Nicola chose to head down the nearest corridor in hopes of finding someone that might guide her to where she was meant to have been – ah, 7 minutes ago.

She turned the corner and nearly jumped in surprise as her ears were assaulted by the sound of an angry Scotsman.

“Aye, Hugh you tragic, dim-witted old cunt. What tae ya think the problem was with that speech? Do ya think it were Ollie’s fault? Or do you think, per’aps, it were the fact yay were behaving like you were two sandwiches short of a fucking happy meal!” The voice carried down the corridor, though clearly the source was from the depths of one of the many rooms that lined it. Something about it resonated with Nicola, though at this point she was so frantic about running at least 10 minutes late that she subconsciously filed her reaction – to address when her possible humiliation and sacking weren’t immanent.

She had found the meeting room after asking directions from a portly, rouged man and the rest of her day went without a hitch. In fact, she had forgotten all about the profanities from the corridor until she was getting ready for bed that night. As she stripped off her suit to step into the enticing spray of the shower, she took a moment to read her soulmate’s message for the day.

_“Hugh you tragic dim-witted old cunt”._

Oh. Nicola felt something like nausea spread out from the pit of her stomach, crashing through her like waves on the shore. Oh fuck.

***

Nicola spent the following weeks listening out for any murmurs of the all-swearing eye of Westminster. However, it wasn’t till over a month later that she managed to pin down exactly who had been gracing her with his vulgar monologues for the last 25 years.

It was the office Christmas party when she learnt his name.

Malcom Tucker.

The dark lord of spin.

Tucker’s reputation proceeded him it seemed. The party’s spin doctor and close confidant of the PM, he was a man of power and feared by the masses. She heard murmurings of him over the next few months, listened as colleagues traded stories of bollockings – including the one where he had reportedly threatened to crack someone open like a fucking walnut. She knew for a fact – unfortunately – that that incident had gone down exactly in the way you might fear it would.

Amazingly Nicola had managed to avoid meeting the spin doctor in the whole 6 years she had been working as a junior minister, but that lucky streak (like any) would have to end eventually. And end it did. But – like all good stories – it transpired that the end was only really the beginning.

***

The garish blues of the DoSAC walls coordinated bizarrely with the flowers on her dress. Nicola paced her office, muttering to which ever fucking God that might be out there to please let Malcom Tucker be struck by lightning before he could arrive at her new department. Unfortunately, the God’s weren’t looking down on her that day and she knew he had arrived before she heard him.

The rest of the day had gone by in a blur, with Malcom’s behaviour in keeping with every story she had ever heard about him. A (very small) part of her was disappointed by this. She had tried to come across as funny, at one point even making a quip about Katie being a heroin addict carrying the love child of a Nigerian people smuggler (she thought it might lighten the mood – it did not). Overall, she felt she had not endeared herself to Malcom. This didn’t bother her much though because despite being handsome in a strange – emaciated corpse – kind of way, he was an enormous arsehole. Anyways, even if he was her soulmate, it was very unlikely she was his.

That night she sat on the sofa with a large glass of wine and inspected her forearm:

_“From bean to cup, you fuck up.”_

Yep.

Seems about right.

It was half-past eleven when she was stirred from the accidental nap she had taken on the sofa. The source of the disturbance appeared in the form of a text to her work phone. The number wasn’t saved, so she assumed it was a new colleague. She opened the text.

_Ni’cla. Come to my office tomorrow morning, 10.00 sharp._

_It appears we have some issues to discuss regarding a “chiefly heroin taking” rebel daughter of yours, or more specifically the appearance of this delightful description of her on my person this evening. Hope you’re prepared for a fucking wild ride._

_Malcom F Tucker_

_p.s. try not to wear a curtain to work tomorrow_

_p.p.s. take it easy on the Rescue Remedy, I don’t bite (unless you’re into that?)_


	4. Deaf AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where Nicola is deaf; starts with more or less the same time line as the beginning of season 3 and then diverges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not deaf nor hard of hearing myself andI have tried to write this with the utmost respect to the deaf community. But fair warning James is in this and he's a complete tosser (naturally) and Malcom is protectiveTM.

Bright skies and a warm breeze greeted Nicola as she stepped out that day. Surely that must be a good omen. She walked down her gravel drive, careful not to scuff the toes of her new heels as she went. As she approached her car. The driver – Elanor – got out and opened the door for her, giving a small nod and a smile.

Today was Nicola’s first day at her new job as cabinet minister for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship. She was thrilled to have been offered the position and excited to pitch her ideas regarding social mobility. She spent the journey to Westminster gazing out of the window, watching the world go by and weighing up the pros and cons of keeping the advisors left by her predecessor.

Nicola met Sarah at the door. Sarah was her interpreter and a dear friend; they had met in the final year of uni when working together on a criminal psychology project. Since then Sarah had been her confidant and number one cheerleader. When she told the woman about the job offer from DoSAC she was at her door – bottles of wine in hand – within the half-hour. Linking arms, the two women set off towards Nicola’s building, both feeling building anticipation (and Nicola just a hint of fear).

It turned out Nicola was right to feel fear. Within minutes of being in the building she was accosted by a woman in a heinous pastel suit, waving a clipboard and having Sarah translate at ten to the dozen as she rattled of a list of things that Nicola had to do.

After finally getting a word in edgeways, Nicola promised the woman that she would have a comprehensive list of who in the department she was keeping by the end of the day. Far from reassuring the woman, it had led to a whole new tidal wave of tactless questions surrounding Nicola’s ability to “speak rather well, considering, well… you know”. Sarah had looked apologetic by mildly amused as she had relayed the woman’s spiel, and it was obvious the words weren’t intended to be malicious.

Nicola had been hard of hearing from birth but hadn’t become fully deaf until she was about 19. Therefore, she spoke well only faltering on particularly difficult inflections or during long speeches. This fact really came into its own when she was told about the impending visit of Malcom Tucker. She had heard the stories, everyone in Westminster had. But she had never had the misfortune of meeting the infamous spin doctor. However, it appeared that that was about to change.

***

As imagined, Malcom came on to the scene all fucks blazing.

“Is this the number one ladies detective agency?” Nicola kept half an eye on Sarah as the Westminster’s ‘tall white Mugabe’ (as Ollie had so eloquently put it) sauntered through the door. Nicola stood and took his hand in both of hers, giving it a firm shake. He smiled as he greeted her (but in Nicola’s opinion it looked unnatural on him) and evicted Glenn and Ollie from the room.

She noticed a shift in his demeanour as they left, an almost feral grin taking over.

Her heart dropped as she watched his lips move to form the unmistakable letters of “PFI”. Oh bollocks.

However, mercifully Malcom seemed to suddenly realise there was another presence in the room. He turned his head slightly – out of Nicola’s line of vision – to meet Sarah’s eyes.

“And who the fuck are you? Dinnae realise it was ‘bring your fucking mate to work’ day?” Sarah balked.

Nicola could sense the hostility coming off Malcom in waves.

“Malcom.” She spoke sharply enough that he turned his attention back to her. “That’s Sarah, she my interpreter. It’s all in my file.”

“Aye your file. Darling, I hate tae break it to ya, but you were so low on the fucking list of people to run this joke of a department that you would be lucky if I were using your file as a tea coaster.” It dawned on Nicola then, she wasn’t a token woman, an inspiration to the deaf community that anyone could be involved in politics. Not even close. It appeared that she was – instead – a panic hire. A last attempt to save a sinking ship of shit. Well it was refreshing she supposed, if you could get past the fact that it was really quite fucking rude.

“Wait.” Malcom face contorted in confusion. “Interpreter, did you say interpreter?” Nicola nodded, giving him a hard stare. The Scot looked at her, then Sarah, then back to her. “Oh.”

“You didn’t know I was deaf? You hired me and didn’t even have the decency to know I’m fucking deaf!” The man did however have the decency to look sheepish for a moment, but it didn’t last long. He looked at her for what felt like a split second longer than necessary, as if choosing his next words carefully.

“Here’s the thing darling.” Sarah, having adapted quickly to yet another about turn in atmosphere, signed along. “I don’t care if yah deaf, dumb or blind. What I do care about, is the image that you’re assumedly twatish husband is already giving of you to the media. So, you better get your fucking thinking cap on, because if we don’t squash this PFI thing so flat it could be Ollie’s arse then you can wave goodbye tae this job before you’ve even had a chance to fuck it yourself.” With that he spun on his heel and stormed out of the room.

_‘Well he seems like a barrel of fucking laughs.’_ Sarah chuckled.

_‘Doesn’t he just. Can’t imagine why they call him the dark lord of spin.’_ Nicola rolled her eyes. She could tell from that moment that this job was going to be an unimaginable ball ache and frankly, she couldn’t fucking wait.

***

It was a merciful three days before she saw Malcom again. She had settled into the job for the most part, with a few minor hiccups including one sack-race based incident. She had imagined that the spin doctor would mostly leave her to her own devices, having declared her department “so inconsequential it could be run by a fucking child”. However, it seemed that she had no such luck. This was a particular inconvenience as there had been a slight mishap with one of their databases that had caused the entire immigration data for the last six months to be erased.

It transpired that Malcom had not known about the irretrievable data loss. Not at least until they had told him. Fucking marvellous. None the less, they had kept it under wraps and by the end of the day it was looking like this might all blow over. Then she had to go and open her big trap.

***

Nicola stood with Sarah outside Malcom’s office. She knew she was in big fucking trouble with the spin doctor, but she was determined to stand her ground. After a few minutes, a petite brunette came out of the room and Nicola recognised her has Malcom’s PA. She was a sweet girl, very intelligent and clearly thick skinned if she had put up with the bastard for this long. She signalled that they could enter.

Malcom then proceeded to lambast her for the better part of 5 minutes before stopping abruptly. He took a moment to catch Nicola’s eye and then, slowly but deliberately started to move his hands.

_‘Today, you have laid your first big fat egg of solid fuck.’_

Both Sarah and Nicola watched, awestruck and mildly horrified. He continued; a man possessed.

_‘You took the data loss media strategy, and you ate it with a lump of E. coli. And then you sprayed it out of your arse at 300 miles per hour.’_

Gobsmacked, Nicola could only stare at him. He stared back, fury burning in his eyes.

“Well. Do you have anything to say for yourself, the Rt. Honourable minister of Frumpsville?” He was back to speaking now, continuing like nothing had happened. Recovering, and realising she was still in the middle of what was becoming a monumental bollocking, Nicola began to defend herself. She pushed the incident to the back of her mind as she focused on trying to protect her job title and pride.

***

As the weeks went by, Nicola received many the verbal colonic. Each was peppered with a few lines of abuse, carefully and accurately signed in the midst of raging fury.

It wasn’t long until some of Westminster caught onto this unusual state of affairs. A cabinet minister here and an advisor there would report that they had seen the most vicious of arguments occur between the generally mild-mannered DoSAC minister and the all-swearing-eye of the government. Hands would fly as the two screamed at each other. At first, Sarah had been present, helping Malcom to vent his frustrations to Nicola. However, one day she was spotted chatting to Sam, waiting it seemed for her boss to emerge from the Lion’s den.

After that incident people noticed the interpreter was often perched on Sam’s desk whilst she waited for the arguments between the two bosses to subside.

About 6 months into Nicola’s job she and Malcom were something of a running joke within Westminster. People would stop in the corridors and watch as their hands flew, both scowling at each other as they fought. Sometimes, if she was around, Sarah would provide a running commentary – even on one occasion complementing Malcom on his ability to sign the word _‘fuckity do dah’_ and _‘dowdy DoSAC bint’_.

***

The office Christmas party rolled round, and Nicola found herself perched on a barstool, sipping a mojito and taking in the pandemonium around her. Tom was making a tit of himself (as per usual), throwing his arms around two uncomfortable looking junior ministers as he steered them towards the dance floor. She had given Sarah the night off, claiming that she deserved to mingle at the party not just stand by Nicola’s side all night whilst she wittered on about the benefits of social mobility in the current political climate. She turned to the woman in question, currently spinning Malcom’s PA on the dancefloor, before catching her again and giggling as she and Sam stood nose to nose.

Speaking of Malcom, she had barely seen the man all night. At the very beginning she had spotted him, leant against a door frame looking dashing in his sharp tux and scanning the crowd for any sign of impending fuckery. Since then however, she had barely gotten a glimpse of him, instead having spent a good portion of her evening sipping mojitos and watching as her lumbering husband tried to chat up some of the government’s finest totty.

Ah yes, James. The sorry excuse for a husband that had insisted that he accompany her to this do because, “Nicky darling, we all know that you’re going to need someone to talk to if Sarah’s off for the night.” Bastard.

For all he had professed that he would be the only one she could talk to, he had spent the whole night trying to schmooze the PM and impress any young girl that would give him the time of day. Like she said, bastard.

Having had little luck with the girls from the education department, James Murray made his way back to his wife.

“Nicky babe,” He spoke lazily, not bothering to face her head on, “had a lovely chat with the PM, top guy. Reckon I could get him to come to the club sometime.” Nicola rolled her eyes. There was about as much chance of Tom going to James’ poxy rugby club as there was of him getting through the night without causing a total shitstorm – that was to say, very little chance at all.

It appeared James was going to continue waxing lyrical about he and Tom’s budding friendship when she was thankfully (if you could say that) saved by Malcom Tucker himself.

“Nic’la.” He signed as he spoke, making his way over to the bar. “And this must be Mister Murray.” He did not sign this last part as he held his hand out to the man who had just taken notice of his approach. James took Malcom’s hand and shook it roughly, obviously trying to assert himself.

“That I am, and who are you? One of Nicky’s little helper monkeys?” Malcom narrowed his eyes at James, before positioning himself so that Nicola could see him speak.

“Aye, Ni’cla wishes I was her helper monkey. But alas, I am the person that guides her through speeches and makes sure she looks as delightfully charming to the general public as she does to us.” He gave Nicola his most dashing smile.

Nicola sometimes forgot that Malcom was capable of getting through a sentence without swearing, it was refreshing if a little uncomfortable. 

James tilted his head away from Nicola, obscuring the view of his face. “Our Nicky, charming?” He gave a small laugh, “She’s about as charming as a ferret that one. But don’t tell her I said anything.” He winked at Malcom before positioning himself as he had been previously.

The next few moments seemed to go by in slow motion.

_‘Fucking sorry about this darling,’_ Malcom signed quickly before taking a step closer to James.

“How. Fucking. Dare. You.” Malcom – although half his weight – had a few inches on James and he used them to his advantage as he looked down at him, eyes alight with barely concealed rage. “How fucking dare you insult your wife. Your wife who, for starters, is a hell of a lot more fucking charming than you are. You sweaty, rouge cunt.” He was practically snarling now.

“Oh, pull the other one, you know full well the dosy mare doesn’t belong in cabinet. I don’t know why you’re defending her, it’s not like she can even hear you.”

Everyone in the near vicinity turned towards them as an audible smack echoed round the room. At this point anyone returning to the room would now witness a number of things. Firstly, James Murray pinch the bridge of his nose as a steady stream of blood dripped on to his white tuxedo shirt. Secondly, Malcom Tucker cradling his hand as he retracted it from the aforementioned bloody nose. And thirdly, the Rt. Honourable Nicola Murray, sipping on a mojito and looking incredibly amused at the situation that was unfolding.

***

It occurred to Malcom later that evening that punching a prominent cabinet ministers’ husband in the face in front of the entire party was a rash thing to do. But then again, he supposed it would only add to the rumour mill that served to elicit fear into any fucker that thought they could cross him and get away with it. 

***

There had been a flurry of activity following the face punching incident. Having recovered feeling in his hand, Malcom began to apologise profusely to Nicola. Not for his behaviour of course, but for the fact her husband was a complete and utter fucktard to whom no one deserved the misfortune of marrying, much less Nicola herself. Unfortunately, his apology was interrupted by said fucktard. James – seeming to have gotten over the initial shock of being punched in the face – slammed Malcom up against the bar.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you think I let scrawny twats like you push me around whilst they try to butter my wife up by learning some of the fuddy-duddy hand shit she calls a language?” All the fury that Malcom had let ebb away suddenly came back full force.

“Now listen here, you sorry excuse for a sack of fucking skin. If I hear you say one more bad word about your wife, I will disembowel you and string you from the fucking rafters by your own fucking entrails.” Malcom’s words were now the only sound in the room as people gathered around the scene. “James Murray, you are an incompetent, ugly and fucking useless waste of oxygen and if you don’t get the fuck out of this place in the next five minutes you will also be a waste of a fucking police cell.”

The shorter man lunged at Malcom but suddenly felt himself being wrenched backwards. Sam and Sarah had grabbed his arms and were now wrestling him towards the security guards that had appeared as if by magic.

At that point Malcom seemed to realise exactly where they were. All eyes on him as he heaved himself away from the bar. Right, Christmas party. Fuck it to hell.

***

The papers the following day bore little mention of the fiasco, a small exert in the mail claiming:

_“There was an altercation at the Labour annual Christmas party last night, though it is believed that no one was hurt, and no arrests were made. At this point we are unsure of the parties involved.”_

However, the same could not be said for the Westminster rumour mill. Some said that James had discovered an illicit affair was going on between his wife and the resident spin doctor. Others claimed James had accused Malcom of making his wife look bad in the public eye. However, the one rumour that seemed to win over all the rest was that the normally unflappable Malcom Tucker was Nicola Murray’s biggest fan. Despite their apparent hatred for each other and their notorious fights in the corridors of 10 Downing street, it seemed the two had forged a friendship that Malcom felt was worth abandoning all his spin-related morals for.

***

The Murray vs Tucker fights still happened, quite often actually – all things considered. But, when they weren’t tearing a piece out of each other, Nicola and Malcom were a force to be reckoned with. They sat in cabinet meetings, hands twitching and smirking like teenagers before one of them would suddenly spring on a poor, unsuspecting MP.

A few months later, at Sam and Sarah’s engagement party, they were spotted sat on a bench outside with a bottle of scotch. Pissed off their heads with Nicola cackling as Malcom did what one could only assume was a Peter Mannion impression.

The Telegraph reported on Nicola’s divorce. No one mentioned how it managed to throw up some incredibly incriminating and particularly private affairs of James’ whilst painting Nicola out to be credible. The paper also did a 2-page spread on how Nicola had achieved greatness, extoling her virtues as a cabinet minister, working mother of four and champion for the deaf community. If anything, her divorce had helped her career rather than hinder it.

***

All-in-all no one was surprised when, following Malcom’s sacking, Nicola Murray was photographed leaving his house. The series of photographs printed in the Daily Mail followed a routine the cabinet knew well. The first photo showed them in the middle of gesticulating violently, Nicola’s hair wild and Malcom’s face contorted in rage. The second photo was less frenzied, the ex-king of spin appearing to have calmed somewhat as Nicola reached out to hug him. The final photo, the biggest in the spread, was the one that settled a few hundred-quid’s worth of bets across Westminster. It showed Malcom and Nicola, lips locked, stood on the doorstep. Malcom’s hand tucking a stray piece of hair behind Nicola’s ear as she embraced him.

***

Malcom never did return to politics. Instead he released a very successful series of memoirs, the third of which was titled: _Malcom Tucker: The Murray years._

The front page contained a short dedication:

_Without Nicola Murray this book (or indeed this series) would never have been possible – partly because I would likely have died from a stress-induced aneurysm shortly after returning to politics, but also because she is one of the most inspiring people I have ever met._

_So, this book is dedicated to her: The Rt. Honourable Nicola Murray BWWAOA*_

_*Beautiful Wife with an Outstanding Arse_


End file.
